


The Memory of Water

by likethenight



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Canonical Character Death, movieverse reimagining of legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:23:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tristan remembers it all so clearly...the memory of that day, the memory of water. And the memory of her, Iseult the Fair, forbidden, unattainable and beautiful beyond reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Memory of Water

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the deliciously atmospheric "Memory of Water" by my beloved Marillion (available [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yf8e3gpgmr0) with lyrics - I thoroughly recommend a listen). Luguvallium is the Roman name for Carlisle - I couldn't quite work Cornwall into the story, sadly, as it's just too damned far away for movieverse purposes, so Carlisle will have to do for this little reimagining of the tale of Sir Tristan and Iseult the Fair. (I know I've tagged her as Iseult of Ireland, because that's who she's based on, but she's not from Ireland in this, for similar reasons of distance! I hope you will forgive me...given the liberties taken with the legends in the movie, I felt able to take a few of my own.)
> 
> I haven't warned for major character death because it's only referenced in the final line, and if you've seen the film you know what happens to Tristan at the end, but I have tagged for it, and if you feel that the Major Character Death warning should apply, do please let me know and I'll change it. The last line is peaceful, if that helps, and echoes the rather zen-like calm that I felt Tristan evoked in his final moments in the film...

He remembers it all so clearly; he does not even have to close his eyes to be immersed in the memory of that day, the memory of water. He was much younger then, not quite so isolated from his fellow human beings, and he was not so wary of contact with another.

It had been stiflingly hot that day, and Arthur had called for a rest under the edge of the woodland through which their road took them, in the hope that the shade might offer some respite. Tristan had gone off scouting, as was his habit even then, to make sure that there was no enemy near, that their charge would be safe. 

Satisfied that no Woads were nearby, he had stopped by a small, standing pool in a clearing, tempted beyond resisting by the cool, clear water. He had dismounted and undressed, leaving his clothes in a neat pile and looping over a low branch the rope he habitually carried, just in case he happened upon anyone who might need hobbling or tying to a tree to make sure they did no mischief until they had been fully questioned. He let his horse wander a little way to crop the grass, knowing she would not stray far.

Sitting upon a rock at the edge of the pool, he lowered himself into the water, sighing contentedly as it enveloped him, cooling his skin and soothing his frayed nerves. He allowed his eyes to drift shut for a fleeting moment, listening to the silence of the forest, broken only by the calls of birds and the soft rustling of the leaves. It was very rare that he felt able to relax, to let his guard down completely and forget for a while about the life he had to lead.

He opened his eyes again, and there she stood before him, clad only in a long, white shift, her dark hair unbound and falling about her shoulders. He had not heard her approach.

She walked slowly towards him, bare feet making no sound upon the soft grass, and he knew he should speak, ask her what she was doing away from her escort, why she was there alone, but his voice was trapped in his throat and he could only stare at her as she moved. Iseult, the promised wife of Gaius Marcus Quintilianus of Luguvallium, escorted to her husband by Arthur and his knights. Forbidden, unattainable and beautiful beyond reason.

He had watched her on their journey, had found himself dangerously enthralled by her beauty, her spirit, her kindness and compassion. She was a skilled healer, and he had seen her soothe and calm a wounded horse before she even left her father's house. Even his hawk seemed calmer when she was near. He had tried to remind himself that it was not his place to be getting infatuated with someone else's betrothed, that he had no time or room in his life for such feelings; he had tried to avoid her and cut himself off from the rest of the band, but he was not as skilled at isolation in those days, and for all his extra scouting missions he still could not help coming back, just for a look, a glance, perhaps even a smile every now and then.

And now here she was, walking into the water so that her skirt billowed about her legs as she came deeper into the pool, and he could do nothing but stand and watch her, his blood burning, unable even to back away.

She stood before him, more than waist deep in the water, and he opened his mouth to say something, although what, he did not know. She reached up and pressed her finger to his lips before he could so much as make a sound, and smiled.

"Hush," she whispered. "No words between us, my brave knight. Just you, and me, and the water." And she leaned up and kissed him, softly yet fiercely, and he responded like a man who had not realised he was thirsty until a jug of water was placed before him. He found his arms slipping around her, holding her close and tight against him as she drank him down. 

When she drew away he found himself dizzy and light-headed, gasping for breath like a drowning man. She slid her hands down his back, slick and wet, and gently pulled him down into the water with her. They went under, and she kissed him again under the water, sharing her air with him as tiny bubbles escaped the seal of their lips and went scurrying up towards the sunlight. Surfacing again, he saw that she was smiling, joyful and childlike though her wet hair was plastered to her face and her shift was clinging to her body, outlining every tantalising curve. Tristan could not help himself; his smile echoed her own, and he smoothed her hair gently away from her face. Her skin was pale and smooth, a dusting of freckles across her nose like a speckled hen's egg enhancing her loveliness; her green eyes danced with mirth as she gazed up at him. He held her close, lifting her skirts out of the way. She wriggled out of the dress and snuggled against him, her wet skin smooth and perfect against his, tracing patterns on his chest with one long, slender finger. Tristan let his hands roam idly over her back; she was perfect, too perfect, and he almost did not dare to do more. But then she smiled, a wicked smile for such a sweet lady, and kissed him again, taking his hand and giving it just the tiniest bit of guidance. He slipped his fingers between her legs and felt something inside him come undone as she gasped and moved against his hand.

He had never imagined that it could be like this. She surrounded him, enveloped him just as the water did, lapping and splashing around them as they moved slowly together. Her dress drifted on the surface of the pool, forgotten, for nothing else existed but each other and the water, and the rising thirst in him; a thirst for her which he knew nothing could quench, certainly not this one encounter, magical and wonderful though it was.

She shuddered and moaned in his arms, and the wave broke over him at last; he clung to her, gasping and shaking, and kissed her over and over, gazing down at her with his heart in his eyes. He would not say it, but despite all his efforts she had enchanted him, and he loved her.

They lay together on the bank of the pool, letting the sun dry them off; Iseult hung her dress from a tree until it was dry enough to wear, and then she put it back on and took her leave of him. He kissed her once more and watched her go, knowing that he would never again be so close to her. He did not wonder at how she had managed to escape Arthur's guard on her own; he knew her well enough to know that she had ways of getting what she wanted without raising any suspicion. He did not rejoin the company until many hours had passed, and it was not until they were well on their way that he realised he had left his rope beside the pool. No matter. He could get more rope; but he did not want to return to the pool, not without her.

And so they delivered Iseult to her husband and rode away again, and if she was not in the same condition as when she left her father's house, neither of those who knew ever spoke of it. 

Tristan occasionally rides past the wood with the pool when he is scouting, but he never stops there; the memory is enough and too much, without any tangible reminders. The thirst has never left him, and he has learned to ignore it and bury it inside, isolating himself more and more from the others as the years pass. It will not be quenched, not while he lives. The nearness of others is a painful reminder of what he cannot have, and so he prefers to be alone with his hawk and his thirst and the memory of water.

And when his day comes, and death comes stalking him wearing the face of a Saxon chieftain, he thinks he hears her soft voice in the pain and the roaring in his ears, her voice and the lapping of water, and peace washes over him as the darkness falls.


End file.
